


Do you want to hear about the deal I'm making?

by flynnwb



Series: relief next to me [2]
Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Content Warning: Ianthe Tridentarius, Dubious Consent, F/F, Harrow the Ninth Spoilers (Locked Tomb Trilogy), Masturbation, Mild Gore, Non-Consensual Touching, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Post-Harrow the Ninth (Locked Tomb Trilogy), Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:14:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28035996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flynnwb/pseuds/flynnwb
Summary: Harrow, if you're still in there and able to follow my little updates, don’t worry.  I’mnottelling you this stuff because I intend to do anything (or let anyone else do anything) nefarious with your bits while you're away.  If I did, it would mean conceding a major point to Ianthe.  And if you don’t trust me purely by virtue of my own deep-seated ethical sensibilities, I hope you at least trust my pettiness enough that you can be sure I wouldnevergive Ianthe a chance to say ‘I told you so’.This work is a sequel to:first in the series, but can be read as a stand alone.
Relationships: Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Gideon Nav/Ianthe Tridentarius, Harrowhark Nonagesimus/Ianthe Tridentarius
Series: relief next to me [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2052774
Comments: 26
Kudos: 78





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Running up that Hill, Kate Bush is an icon. Also the first rule of improv is 'yes AND', so listen to the Placebo cover too.
> 
> Content notes:  
> Tagged dubious consent because Harrow is not available to consent to any activities Gideon might participate in while wearing Harrow’s body, and because Ianthe is back on her manipulative bullshit. Rating is T for the first few chapters, but don't worry I'm about to earn that MATURITY.

Okay, so. Here’s the deal, Harrow. It’s been three and a half months. Don’t hold what I’m about to tell you against me.

Actually, you know what, do hold it against me, very much. I deserve it. You’re going to kill me if- **when** you get back. Thinking about it now, it’s like I’ve borrowed someone else’s excessively ancient, fragile, irreplaceable tome of forbidden wisdom, opened it, and promptly spilled boiling hot coffee all over the thing. And not just a mug, an entire pot.

Not that I’m calling your body ancient or fragile. Or maybe I am. I also threw irreplaceable in there so go ahead and complain (rightfully) about my life choices but you can’t critique my similes. 

And yes, of course I know what a simile is, my magazines have always had plenty of great examples. ‘Eat my ass like a cupcake’, ‘saucy like a barbecue but you won’t get your baby back’, et cetera: truly educational stuff. Now that I’m thinking about it, a not-insignificant amount of the anatomical imagery revolved around eating and food. Real hot-cannibal shit. I wonder if the publishers are from the Third?

The Third. Now I know what this probably sounds like but I really am not avoiding explaining what it is that you should(n’t?) hold against me. I’m just doing a thing, like, stream of consciousness. It’s stylistic, okay? I’ll get there when I get there. It’s about the journey not the- fuck.

Harrow, I made out with Ianthe two weeks ago. Locked lips, did the tongue tango, frenched. The whole shebang. 

I’m sorry, okay, really **really** sorry. In my defense I DID stab her first, and afterwards when I came to my senses, I used a dash of mouthwash to flavor some bleach (the freshmaker) and grew you a nice new set of gums. So you won’t have to worry about sanitation when you get back. 

And listen, I was never upset with _you_ about whatever that thing was you sort of had with her - what right would **I** have to tell you what to do? But now I really understand and I’m _extra_ not upset with you. Three and a half months trapped with her, first in a tiny rickety shuttle and then our current, only slightly less claustrophobic, refurbished cruiser (which we acquired, pre-owned and lightly used, from some fatally magnanimous BoE agents) have blessed me generously with opportunities to learn firsthand. Ianthe is a next level manipulative bitch.

I’ll leave it at that, because I think it pretty much says what needs to be said. Not like I’m writing this down, anyway. But I have no poker face, so I gotta stop thinking at you and come out of hiding. Pyrrha just paged my room asking if I was ever showing my face at God’s family dinner night again or if she could start using my allotted supply of self-heating ration packs as cozy little hand warmers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up kids.


	2. Chapter 2

No, you know what? I don’t think I’m fucking done.

Dinner the other night was awful, by the way. Don’t even ask. But you would never ask anyway, would you? Not because your soul is, like, dead in there or something, but just because you’re thoughtful. When I say, “Harrowhark Nonagesimus,” the main adjectives that spring to mind are definitely _empathetic_ and _subtle_. But yeah, I’m keeping it to myself. Yup.

SO AT DINNER. Ianthe kept trying to rub her foot up the back of your leg under the table? Pyrrha definitely clocked it. I’m sure His Divine Omnipotence did too, and is just too awkward to acknowledge it. I’d have been thrilled to have such a poor chaperone for a father if I wasn’t wearing your body and if the person rubbing my leg hadn’t been a conniving phlegm-witch. Anyway Pyrrha thought it was funny when at one point Ianthe managed to trace your inner thigh up just a little too high and press- well, I’ll spare you the gory details. I’ll just say this; I didn’t let it get far. I defended your honor, Harrow, and mine. 

I excused myself, without even finishing my rations. That means this bitch got between me and my (probably futile) crusade to get any calories to actually stick to your malnourished skeleton, so now it’s war.

Which brings me to what I wanted to finish saying about Ianthe. I can see how she got to you, Harrow. If there were formal rankings for ‘all-around douchenugget plus decently gifted at psychological warfare’, that pasty little gargoyle would be perched on the highest parapet of S tier. Her shit always works on me, even when I know exactly what she’s doing. 

Or, well, not _exactly_ what she’s doing. Leading up to the _ahem_ 'salivary exchange' I told you about, I could tell she was manipulating me, but her final play came completely out of left field. Otherwise I would never have fallen for it, okay? I would have walked right out, _even though that would mean conceding the match to her_. She might be able to play me like a dumbass flute but she can’t touch you if we’re not in the same room.

Which is why, ever since the disastrous training session with the tonsil hockey of shame, I’ve been avoiding being alone with Ianthe. It just seemed like the most foolproof (meaning me-proof, I’m the fool) approach. But I’m realizing this week that whenever I specifically try to spend time around Pyrrha or John Ianthe is also just...there? She persists in my vision like an after-image from a sudden flare, which you of all people should understand is exceptionally **aversive** to eyes accustomed to the Ninth House’s rustic mood lighting. And now Ianthe’s gone and proven that she won’t be cockblocked, even when The Man who Became God/God who Became Man is sitting next to her digging stale protein isolate out of his molars with a bone splinter.

Maybe I just can’t go anywhere anymore? This sucks _so much ass_. Not because I find the company of anyone on this ship particularly scintillating, but just because it’s, like, kind of lonely in space? I guess I don’t need to tell you that, you must know precisely what this feels like. I shouldn’t be asking you to feel sorry for me either, especially not when the reason I feel like a shitstain is because I’m **consistently** and **egregiously** failing to take proper care of your body.

So don't feel bad for me, I'm just stating the fact that I have literally nothing to distract myself with. The BoE agents we liberated our cruiser from definitely had no taste, because there weren’t even any magazines on board. And believe me, I _looked_.


	3. Chapter 3

Here goes month number four. I’m starting it off with a bang, because I just adore excitement, darling; for breakfast I shall remain locked in my chambre and for dinner tonight I’m planning on just screaming.

It’s not like I _want_ to bond with my (probably most likely definitely evil?) Father. There’s just something comforting about rhythm. In Drearburgh, consistent training was the ticket. These past months, I’ve been gaining a real sense of psychological stability from the weekly meetings in which I try to make a deal with God. They’re highly repetitive; I get down on your knees and beg him to swap our places, to drag you back from wherever it is you’ve bobbed off to in the River. I say I’ll pay literally any price, maybe cry a little if I’m feeling saucy (yes, the paint runs, I hope that detail makes you appropriately chagrined). He inevitably says no, he’s grown attached to father-daughter bonding time thanks very much, and then He asks something infuriatingly inane like what was my favorite bones-themed board game as a child or had I _really_ never been inside the tomb? It’s a real riot, you’d love it. It’s better than being alone.

Pyrrha on any given day lands somewhere in the fine-to-vaguely-off-putting spectrum. She was genuinely in.cre.di.ble the one time I got her to spar with me, but I’m fairly convinced that was a single opportunity event. Most of the time, she’s just kind of listless. Everyone she really loved is dead, she’s managed to outlive them all despite her best efforts, and she’s trapped in someone else’s raisin-body. Oof, relatable. So we’ve earned our respective allotments of ennui and dehydration in a similar fashion, but it’s challenging to commiserate beyond surface level when we both know any conversation would boil down to; “I fucked your mother, and at _least_ once I did it while she was wearing the body of a girl you used to have a crush on. Then I killed her, but don’t be sad Gideon, she never loved you anyway.” 

Also. Any time I catch her out of the corner of your eye, for an instant all I can see is the Saint of Duty. Harrow, whatever dark sided shit you did to your hippocampus, it certainly didn’t impede your amygala’s ability to encode new automated alarms that scream “THREAT! THREAT! THREAT!” when triggered. Ultimately Pyrrha and I don’t have much to say to one another, but our silent kickbacks were at least companionable...before Ianthe went and forcibly cloistered me in my room like a _real_ bone-nun.

Speaking of threat alarms and boning, I have a personal question. Maybe it’s inappropriate roommate behavior for me to ask, but you’re out of town currently which leaves me dealing with any broken pipes or clogs or grease fires or hurricanes that happen while you’re gone. So Harrow; have you always been this way, or was there a specific incident that caused your body to start transmuting repeating spikes of fear and adrenaline into like...horny times? 

Or is that just me?

You’re right, you’re right. It’s definitely just me, you’re too strong-minded to develop the type of sick positive associations I did with our little brawls back on Drearburgh. I’m sure even kicking the shit out of me never did it for you. You must have been put off by the sight of my blood - the freshly oxygenated hue wouldn’t have made me look long-dead enough for your tastes. Now that I think about it, you were probably too fucking stubborn to even hit puberty at all. 

Well, I wasn’t. And I’m nearly twenty-one years old, confined in my cabin alone. At this point a ham sandwich could arouse me. Yeah, yeah, glass houses and stones re: Third house sexy cannibalism and all that. I’m just saying I can’t decide whether or not it’s a good thing that I didn’t find any magazines of my preferred literary genre on this ship.

On the one hand, if I had unearthed some it would make my stay in solitary that much more charmingly nostalgic - just like old times in my cell on the Ninth. But on the other hand, it wouldn’t be _just_ like old times, would it? Because there is a certain activity which was always (too often? Nah) a comfort for me, and from which I am **obviously** abstaining. 

I don’t want to lie and say that I haven’t thought about it. A lot. Especially when I’m showering. With my eyes tightly closed and only in the sonic! Even I’m not dumb enough to risk running water and soap lathering, thanks very much. I’m only human, Harrow, even if I am the child of god and even if my original body (what am I saying. Not original, my only body. This one doesn’t belong to me) had **out of this world** good looks.

Is any of this getting through to you? 

I’ve been working so devotedly to keep it PG for your virginal sensibilities, but I’m beginning to think you might not even be able to hear me. I recall-in the way you might recall a fevered nightmare-what it felt like when I was locked down deep in that defunct well in the backwoods of your brain. 

Is it the same for you though? Does it hurt you? Do you occasionally buoy up to just below the surface of that icy dark water, and grasp some small detail, however distorted by the ripples? Or are you even there at all? 

Ianthe said it seemed like I might be a single occupant at present, like you were probably elsewhere in the River, some oblique dimension where even she couldn’t reach you. But we all know Ianthe is not notorious for being a beacon of truth, so, bet.

ANYWAY if you can hear this, don’t worry. I’m telling you this stuff because I want you to appreciate the sacrifices I’m making for you, because this is proving much more challenging and complex than falling on a spike, because it’s certainly lasting longer. I’m **not** telling you this stuff because I plan to do anything nefarious with your bits. I definitely won’t. If I did, it would mean conceding a major point to Ianthe. And if you don’t trust me by virtue of my own deep-seated ethical sensibilities, I hope you at least trust me to be petty enough that I would _never_ present Ianthe with an opening to say ‘I told you so’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those are some famous last words, Gideon.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was **NOT** about to lead Ianthe on a thrilling chase, not again. For your sake, I have been constantly swallowing - binge drinking, shotgunning, slurping down - my pride. It’s given me bad indigestion, Harrow. Besides, facing a threat head-on means it can’t take you from behind-...Oof, word choice. ANYWAY.
> 
> BIG CW: IANTHE IN THIS ONE FOLKS.

I made a mistake today. A big old heaping scoop of ‘WHOOPS’. And we can’t even prosecute Ianthe for it because this was on me; she caught me slipping.

I woke up far too early, once again (or maybe ‘still’ because it never fully stops anymore) in a _certain_ mood. Being up this early, in this mindset, with plentiful personal time before Drearburgh’s morning bells could even consider tolling, used to guarantee my day would be decent at worst - maybe even good. Now - well.

I’ve been trying to relieve the incessant buzzing static in my gut by working out instead.

The issue is, my tiny cabin is too small for a full cardio burst, even with your stubby little limbs. I’ve been limited to things like squats and inversions, lots of chest-to-wall, grip strength, palm raises _on all fours_. Harrow, in my old body I could have done those in a plank with my feet elevated on the lip of the bed. Honestly, sometimes I feel like working out your little necro body is exacerbating my frustration, not alleviating it. But Harrow, your wrists are maybe slightly a weensy bit stronger than they were three weeks ago! If-... **when** you finally get back, you probably still won’t be able to use my two-hander, but you will be able to pen a beautiful eulogy for Gideon Nav, thanking me profusely for your newfound ability to open jars of pickles. It’s progress! But it’s not enough to get me out of my head.

I had jolted awake, skin hot beneath cold sweat, only four hours after the habitation lights had dimmed for ‘nighttime’. I thought, I really thought, that if I snuck out to the training room right then to run laps, Ianthe would still be asleep. Maybe I would even run into Pyrrha, my fellow insomniac, and get to make mouth-sounds at another two-legged animal. I could definitely use the refresher on how language works.

Basically I was a deluded optimist, willing to do any mental gymnastics necessary to convince myself it was safe to HIIT my jitters out in a room where I could actually maintain a jog. And in my hubris (and desperation) I didn’t take any precautions to make sure there was someone else in the room as a buffer against that cheap wax-museum likeness of Coronabeth.

So of course she showed up, although I’m not sure when exactly. By the time I finally noticed her, Ianthe had already positioned herself strategically between me and the exit and was oozing the brand of manufactured nonchalance I always imagined cohort investigative officers affected just before they cornered a suspected traitor.

It was my mistake, I had been preoccupied with my one-handed cartwheel drills when she snuck in. But they look cool as fuck, alright? Imagine: cartwheeling _while still holding your sword in one hand_ : absolutely sick. And yeah yeah yeah, if my opponent was a real threat I promise I wouldn’t risk too much theatrical bullshit, but it’s not hurting anyone if I embellish during my free time! Also, babes go nuts when the heroine whips out a really showy stunt - I know this from my literary research. 

Anyway, it can’t have been _that_ long until I clocked her just...watching me.

Ianthe looked like she had been dragged by the ankle from bunk to training room, and bonked her little yellow head on every threshold en route. Honestly, Harrow, I think she HAD just gotten up? Looking back on it, the best explanation for her catching me is that she had somehow hacked the cruiser’s internal surveillance systems to notify her if I left my quarters. Which must have required considerably more effort than she pretends she’s willing to make. And I thought _you_ got hyper-fixated on things.

Anyway, despite her limp hair being frizzed up around her pillow-creased face, glowing in the low artificial light like a ridiculous little halo, she still managed to look smug as she leaned against the bulkhead just inside the auto-door. 

I said something to the effect of “hey fam, I’m using this space right now, and I don’t want to share with you, please kindly respect my boundaries and vacate, thanks”. To the effect of. My precise choice of wording might have been a touch more belligerent, but the sentiment was essentially the same.

Ianthe said, “Oh don’t mind me, I’m not here to train. I was on a late night stroll when I heard you clunking around. I only came in to make sure you weren’t some BoE stowaway living in our ventilation system.” And then, after a pause to examine her nails; “Don’t assume everyone’s constantly about _you_ , Griddle.”

Harrow, I hate it. I hate the way she said it, like the stupid nickname was charring and blistering her tongue and she _liked_ the sensation. I hate the way electricity still runs down my spine and pools in my belly when I think of her thin pasty lips forming the word.

I’m so fucking easy. I used to think I was only easy for you but I guess now I’m ruined. Or I always was (see: Cytherea). Maybe I’m just easy for the nearest person who can make my animal brain sit up and say ‘mean lady hot’. Another way in which my wires are permanently crossed. 

Not that it absolves me of my choices, but let’s not lie to ourselves Harrow; you made this bed. You tortured me (reciprocally, but still) for my whole life and then, on some inconsequential day I can’t recall in particular, you reached into my chest and wrapped your claws around my heart as if it already belonged to you. As if I’d been condemned to loving you before I even knew I was on trial.

Ianthe interpreted my long silence as encouragement.

“What? Don’t stop on my account, it looked like you were making some major technical strides with those cartwheels. Although I’m not certain Teacher will **allow** you to just waltz off and join the circus.”

Harrow, I could have pushed past her and left. I didn’t. You have to understand. I’d had enough, okay? Letting her chase me out of my training space, letting her scare me away from dinner before I even finished my chalk-tasting lukewarm ration pack, letting her intimidate me into hiding and running for the past five weeks, letting her functionally confine me to my cabin for the past two. Letting her bombard me with all those explicit little notes in her nice cursive on scraps of flimsy (Oh yeah, maybe I should have mentioned those earlier? But even describing one would make me think about it too much; your hormones don’t need the encouragement. And I know you’d be clutching your rosary at the vulgar language.)

I was **NOT** willing to lead Ianthe on a thrilling chase anymore. For your sake, I have been constantly swallowing - binge drinking, shotgunning, slurping down - my pride. It’s given me bad indigestion, Harrow. Besides, facing a threat head-on means it can’t take you from behind-...Oof, word choice. ANYWAY.

I resumed my workout, pretending she wasn’t there. Of course, I kept one eye on her at all times. She didn’t move a single centimetre. She just stared at you, Harrow, with those unsettling hazel eyes. Stared at me. Intently.

It felt like her gaze was slowly toasting the back of your neck. By the time I got to alternating press-ups and sets of mountain climbers, the heat was spreading to your entire body, a foreign feeling on this icy ship. Do Lyctors have magical microwave powers? Doesn’t matter, lyctor power or Ianthe special, that shit worked. 

When she finally made her move, it felt as though all the skin on your body was simmering. I was in the middle of a complicated set of footwork drills I hadn’t even thought about since last time Aiglamine yelled at me about them. Really scraping the bottom of the barrel for workout content I hated, just so I would have a reason not to look at or walk past Ianthe to the gym doors.

Abruptly, Ianthe was standing in front of me, looking down her nose. She said, “it’s been an eternity since you checked in with me about my research. I thought you’d be chomping at the bit to know if I’d made any progress in finding our wayward Harrow.”

I turned around and restarted the stepping sequence. Ianthe said softly from behind me “Tired of research, Nav? Do you even want her back anymore?”

Look, I’m not cut out for this, Harrow. Please get back here, STAT. I know, I know, I’ve asked how many times in the past 4 months and you’re probably having a great laugh leaving me on read and watching me squirm, but please, for your own sake. I’m not on the level of mind games these people play. And-...Ianthe was right that first time, I am weak in my own ways.

I pivoted, directing the momentum from the sidestep I was already taking into a viciously aimed elbow - and there was Ianthe, ducking down and close to get inside the range of my swing. She absorbed the impact of your arcing elbow in that gaudy bone-hand, trapping you in a tableau that would have looked to a casual observer as though you were reaching for her rather than striking out. I froze. She was right in your face, Harrow.

Her breath was slightly stale - she genuinely hadn’t even taken a moment to brush her teeth between being notified that I was out and about, and booking it here as fast as her spindly legs could carry her. It’s nice, knowing you’re someone’s first priority, even if that’s only because you’re also their prey.

As if she were reading my mind, Ianthe said “Prince of darkness help me, but you Ninth girls _are_ amusing to toy with, aren’t you?”

I managed to croak, despite your suddenly dry mouth; “Nope. Boring as fuck right here. World’s least interesting nuns. So you should leave me and Harrow the hell alone.”

Ianthe pouted, leaned down to bring our faces closer. I fucking hate how short you are. “You don’t really want me too though,” she murmured. Her flesh-hand was on the back of your neck - I’m not sure when she’d done that - tilting your face upwards and to the side. I could feel her fingernails pressing gentle half-moons into your scalp.

Harrow, I just...let her move me - move you. Like a helpless little doll. 

Time was a sickly slow blur. Her skele-hand was low and flat on your belly now, her middle and ring fingers tracing, clinically precise, along the sensitive crease where your thigh meets your torso. The sweat I had previously worked up made the loose cloth of my pants stick to your skin in Ianthe’s wake, as if she were drawing little marks onto us. I let this happen.

Her mouth-...her mouth was brushing the side of your neck. Her hand still supported your skull, positioned us to bare your throat. Somehow, even though I had been feeling uncomfortably warm since Ianthe’s presence first encroached on my training session like the rotten stench of a rat that had crawled into a heating vent and died, her breath against your damp skin was burning hot. Her construct hand had followed the lines of your body down, slid sideways between your skinny thighs-despite my attempts to clamp my legs together-and remained there. Her palm was flat as a blade, and her trapezium along with the metacarpal that formed the base of her thumb were pressing bluntly up-up-up in a slow rocking motion. I let this happen.

I felt the gentle graze of teeth on your neck and-God help me-I groaned aloud. Except of course it came out in your voice. I had heard you make sounds in a similar genre, mostly in pain, mostly when we were kids and I was beating the shit out of you. But **this** sound undid me. The desire in it was so...shameless. And of course I knew it was me making it, but it was in _your_ voice, Harrow.

Suddenly, I was no longer a doll in Ianthe’s arms. I said, “please.” I ground your hips down, painfully, against the cold metallic bone wedged between your legs. I reached out both hands, one curving around her back, the other fisting in the billowy material of her shirt. I pressed your body into her, desperate, tilting your neck to a more extreme angle, a helpless invitation. I wanted her to bite me harder. I wanted her to take me apart, shred my muscles and tendons with her teeth and tongue and cruel fingers. I wanted to be unmade, picked clean, laid bare and vulnerable down to my bloody bones. I wanted Ianthe to wreck me, and I wanted to hear your moans while she did it.

And Ianthe...Ianthe shoved me, the absolute bitch. Hooked one foot behind my weak knees and sent me clattering limply to the floor like a construct abruptly cut off from its Necromancer. The wind was momentarily knocked out of your lungs. And also, I wouldn’t have known what words to make even if I had the air to make them with.

Ianthe looked down at me, hazel eyes frigid. She sniffed, once, disdainful. “When you’re ready to stop lying to the both of us, you know where to find me,” she said archly, _and just fucking sauntered out of the room_.

So now I’m lying here on the floor of the training room, like a discarded tissue, telling you this. Because I know that if I don’t come clean right this instant, I won’t ever bring myself to.

There are a lot of things I want to say, like, ‘I wish she hadn’t touched you like that’ and ‘I won’t let this happen a THIRD time. Probably. I think.’ But I am terrified, in a way I have been scared of only a very few things in my pathetic, short, useless life, that if I say them they won’t _sound_ true. So.

I can, however, truthfully tell you this: I am sorry I’ve failed, yet again, to be even a mediocre trustee of your meat suit. I’m certainly not behaving like the sort of Cavalier you deserve. God, Harrowhark, I’m so _fucking_ sorry.

I guess, uhh...WHOOPS.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://youtu.be/fJX3EqLEXWc
> 
> This holiday season, 100% of proceeds from your generously donated comments will go to feeding hungry writer egos in your community.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The chill of deep space is constant and inexorable. It has patiently carved its way in through your skin, your joints, seeping into the spongy gaps where veins and marrow perforate your bones, creeping between osteocytes, making this body heavy and slow and glacial. The feeling is deeply nostalgic. Sometimes when I’m suspended between sleeping and waking I find myself back on Drearburgh._
> 
> Gideon snaps. This is the most explicit of the bunch, folks (and all without Ianthe's help!)

Another day, another detailed examination of the ceiling that crouches ominously just above my mattress. Hey. Hi there. It’s been a while. Weeks. I don’t know. Things are the same, and they aren’t. Why do I keep talking to you when it’s as obvious as space is a vacuum that you aren’t there?

Maybe I’m clinging to the idea of your return because if I don’t have _something_ to be obstinate about, I’ll cease to be Gideon Nav entirely, become just some sad, horny ghost. I’ve already lost my killer good looks, my natural sword arm, my magazines, and now my devastating wit must be on its way out as well; I’ve begun jumping at shadows and tripping over words during my rare interactions with shipmates. If I lose you, too, then what is there to offer as proof of my existence?

Have I mentioned it’s cold as balls on this spaceship? Frostbite ultimately can’t hurt any of our self-repairing lyctor bodies, plus we’re low on supplies, and we can’t stop anywhere to refuel, (this whole sector is BoE territory) so dear old Dad Undying has refused to expend resources fixing climate controls. 

I think John just doesn’t want to admit he’s a luddite who’s intimidated by ships that run on mechanisms other than Thanergy. You can’t teach an old God new tricks. See also: the REAL reason I think he hasn’t attempted to use this ship’s mechanical FTL drive even though it would reunite us with the cohort fleet soooooo much faster. I’ve been secretly reading these engineering manuals I uncovered during my magazine hunt, only cuz there’s nothing else to do besides that and sleep. After the first major conceptual hurdles, they make a lot more sense to me than that esoteric bone shit you’re into, Nonagesimus. But no one asked for my professional opinion and at the end of the day, I don’t want to get your body aerosolized into meat-spray so I haven’t directly shared my thoughts with him.

This fucking ceiling hovers so low that when I’m lying here the heat of your breath creates condensation on the semi-reflective metal paneling above. I’ve started honing my illustration skills using a fingertip to trace through it. It’s mildly gross at this point, over a month’s worth of person-oil and dead cells clinging to the burnished surface behind the water droplets. Earlier I was composing the beginnings of note after note to you and then scrubbing them out again with a breath, but now that I stopped focusing it looks as though I’ve started drawing...ah, yes, titties.

Perhaps the Necrolord Highest actually insists on keeping the ship perpetually frigid because it means **everyone’s** nipples are just...hard. **All** the time. What a perv. He must be who I inherited my sex drive from.

Lyctoral healing powers only manage damage, not sensation, and the chill of deep space is constant and inexorable with no climate control to resist. It has patiently carved its way in through your skin, your joints, seeping into the spongy gaps where veins and marrow perforate your bones, creeping between osteocytes, making this body heavy and slow and glacial. The feeling is deeply nostalgic. Sometimes when I’m suspended between sleeping and waking I find myself back on Drearburgh.

I’m back on Drearburgh and Crux the walking listicle is stomping up the corridor outside my cell, enumerating some catalog of my faults and the impending costs thereof. Or it’s you on the other side of that heavy metal door, gleefully about to ruin my day, wriggling a presumptuous bone piece through my lock like it’s a glory hole for tiny skeleton people.

Sometimes when I’m really drowsy (a lot, recently, sleeping is my newest hobby), the scent of your hair (really long, now, Harrow) on my pillow conjures up a less realistic scenario. Still in my cell on Drearburgh, but you’re not outside anymore. We’re crowded onto my small bunk. Sometimes, I’m curved around you with one arm draped across your middle, you’re pressing back against me, knees bent and your icy toes shoved selfishly back between my calves for warmth, and I can feel your ribcage expanding and subsiding in languorous unison with my own. You snore a little, but it’s cute-snoring.

Other times the fantasy is...different. An example: I’m on my back, one leg straight and the other propped up with a foot on the bed. You’re straddling my hips, grinding yourself down on my thigh or the anterior jut of my pelvis. One of your claw hands is pressing down painfully on my tit; you look like you’re just bracing on the arm for balance, but you know exactly what you’re doing, one sharp nail digging into my nipple as you _lean_ harder. The other hand - sometimes you’re pulling my head back by the hair - the angle so extreme it compresses my windpipe and I’m lightheaded. Or you have three fingers shoved in my mouth, holding my tongue down, gagging me like you’re not even afraid I’ll bite you (and we both know I won’t). Or your hand is lower, your cold fingers reaching past your own legs, below the waistband of my underclothes, bruising rough against my clit, inside me.

Ah, see, this is why I had to keep erasing my ceiling notes. I shouldn’t be telling you- shouldn’t be forcing you to hear this pathetic drivel. Except I am really starting to believe Ianthe is right, I’m starting to believe you’re really...gone. That you’ve abandoned me in your shell, permanently.

Is your pride really so precious you’re that unwilling to accept my sacrifice? Am I that distasteful to you? Is my soul, my life, so unwelcome an offering that you couldn’t just throw on a pinch of salt and force yourself to swallow it, even if only out of politeness for the woman who literally died for you?

Fuck you Harrow.

I would do it again. A thousand times, a hundred thousand, I would die on that spike for you, so that you could live. So that you could **live** , Harrow. But I didn’t do it so you could go off and leave me here as your body’s keeper, directionless and being punished for my sacrifice. You’ve arranged it so that I can’t even really feel sorry for myself or consider doing something that might make me feel less empty without this wild **guilt** rearing up in my gut. It’s diabolical of you, really. Your best one yet, Nonagesimus. I’m nauseated constantly, anymore. 

I feel nauseated right now. And yet, I’m still so fucking wet. In that way where even the microscopic movements caused by breathing in and out are enough to make you feel it on your inner thighs. 

Describing those dreams was - a mistake. But you know what, I don’t want to feel bad about it anymore, okay? I can’t feel bad about it anymore. Ianthe was maybe sort of a miniscule amount onto something.

I-

Ah. Your right hand is-No. **My** right hand is in my pants. This is - odd? Familiar, and unfamiliar at the same time. Your body-my body? Responds differently than what I’m used to. 

My eyes are closed, and my free hand drifts up to grope haphazardly at **my** breast. Ah. I think- no, I KNOW your nipples are a lot more sensitive than mine were. Not like I hadn’t noticed when I’d change shirts and the fabric would brush against them just so, but now is the first time I’m allowing myself to mentally acknowledge it.

It’s almost too intense. I don’t stop, pinch slightly harder instead, but mentally I have to focus on the other hand. Which isn’t difficult because shit, you’re so fucking wet. Do I sound like a broken record? I have to squirm around for the right angle, prop one foot up on the mattress and your knee brushes the icy metal above, which shocks me. I let out a gasp and it’s just like it was with Ianthe - your voice, Harrow. Breathy and startled. I feel...unmoored. And the current is powerful in these waters.

I slide my middle and ring fingers back, exploring, holding the base of my palm firmly against my clitoris, because if I don’t I’m afraid I’ll fly apart. My jaw is clenched tight. Another, louder grunt lurches out of me.

At first I was trying to return to my room on Drearburgh, but somehow I’ve landed at Canaan house, in our temporary bedroom, on your bed. And you’re the one making these noises, because I have my head between your spread legs. I’ve read so MANY books about this, Harrow. I’ve done my research. There are a lot of things I wanted to try in my life before, well. But eating pussy was seriously _up there_ on my bucket list, ahead of even cohort medals, or me saying ‘I told you so’ and having you admit I was right.

So we’re on your bed at Canaan house, and I’m making you moan (I’m moaning? It’s LOUD now) and your sharp fingers are threaded securely through my cropped hair, pulling me in. Your thighs are squeezing the sides of my head like a vice grip, there’s the painful suction cup pressure of trapped air against my eardrums. Breathing is so last year, I’d prefer to be drowning in this, thanks. I’m imagining how you taste and...oh, right.

I yank my hand out of my sweats - the feeling of loss is acute; I replace it with the other, frantic, fumbling. And I bring my wet fingers up to cover my nose and open mouth, smearing slick across my face, pressing down, trying to imitate that suffocating feeling, even as I desperately inhale your scent. There is just enough space to slide my tongue into the gap between pinky and ring fingers and circle, press in firmly. I imagine I’m penetrating you, fucking you with my mouth. You taste...God-. Fuck, Harrow, I-

Harrow, I need -

The metal above my bunk comes into blurry half-focus, and I realize I’ve opened my eyes. Mistake. I can see my reflection, distorted by grease and condensation, but still so distinctive. Because it’s not my reflection, it’s you.

Even in vague outlines, you’re beautiful. Warm brown skin flushed several shades darker, no paint because I didn’t bother, strange smudge of long black hair cascading over the pillow, pooling around your head. You look helpless and wild, and my stupid golden eyes are staring out of your face.

It’s almost what pushes me over the edge.

It’s also what rips me back away from it. 

Because what in the HELL am I doing to you? I’m infinitely worse than Ianthe, violating you with your own hands. At least you can walk away from another person’s touch, eventually, make a habit of forgetting what their fingers and lips felt like, avoid any reminders, but your own?

Slowly, I lift my hand-no. No, no, no, _not my hand_ , YOUR hand. I lift your hand up off my face, trying not to flinch at the tacky reluctance of your cheek to part from your fingers, and I stare at my palm.

I’m so fucked up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I really just out here shitposting memes on ao3? Yes. Yes, I am. [kimochi warui](https://i.kym-cdn.com/photos/images/original/001/211/616/3ae.jpg)
> 
> Thanks for tuning in! The next (final??? But maybe multi-chapter) episode will be brought to you by our favorite sponsor: Ianthe’s perspective.
> 
> If you’ve enjoyed this series so far let me know and if you hated it then oooh baby come on over here and _hurt_ my _feelings_.


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